


grief: revised

by twokinds



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Season: Marielda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:34:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23341792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twokinds/pseuds/twokinds
Summary: Three moments.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	grief: revised

One High Sunday, Samothes heart breaks. The halls are quiet that day, no long stretches of tables with food, no laughter, no dancing. Samol was ill, teetering on an edge, withering away like he was any less than who he was.

Samothes does not know grief; the earth rumbles beneath as the house shakes with it, Samothes may not know grief but the dirt knows those who were borne from it.

(Soft sounds of a piano can be heard through the halls  
if anyone stopped to listen close enough. The world does not halt at the  
prospect of death, not even for a god.)

***

“Daddy!,” yells Maelgwyn as he runs wild towards his father, all of seven years old. A wooden sword swings at his hip as he runs, smile wide and brilliant with all its crooked teeth. Perfection is not a god’s game here.

Samothes catches Maelgwyn in his arms as Samot looks over at them fondly. Maelgwyn with his too-brilliant smile rambles, telling his father in breathless excitement about anything and everything—Primo showing him his workshop, Samot reading him a book about a prince on a moon, Samol teaching him to make a crown of flowers. Samothes can’t get a word in, he does not mind, he never does.

(Years later, gasping and choking on his grief (his anger).  
Maelgwyn wild-eyed and desperate will remember something Samol  
told him when he was old enough for exhaustion to start sitting heavy on his shoulders.

“You know, my dear boy, as much as my sons try they have yet to learn that not even us  
gods can fix the world to completion. Our work is never done.”

Maelgwyn remembers eyes so bright, a body so old, fingers always strumming  
gently on a guitar from nowhere. Maelgwyn remembers hearing _fear_ tinge Samol’s voice  
for the first and the last time as he promised, “My dear boy,  
even _we_ cannot stop the tragedies the stars choose to impart on us.”)

***

As Maelgwyn runs his sword into the soft flesh of his father, he starts to split.

As Maelgwyn witnesses the damage he has done, Samothes dead at his feet, face still bright and open as it had been when he laid eyes on his son, Maelgwyn grieves and does not stop.

(Grief brings about funny things. Samol disappeared many  
years ago, yet here he was, in front of Maelgwyn, reaching out towards  
his face wet with tears and snot.

“Why do you cry, my boy?”

Samol wraps Maelgwyn’s shaking body in his arms, he smells of rosin and woodsmoke.  
This is the mercy of comfort, Maelgwyn thinks,  
a reminder of a time long past that was only ever full of joy.

Samol’s voice rumbles in his ear and Maelgwyn shatters.  
“There is no sorrow to be had here. After all, you are what your fathers made you.”)


End file.
